The fluffiest, prettiest snow of the season arrived today, March 25,
the first weekday of Spring Break!
Category Archives: Nature
Day 1: Spring 2013
Kiko refuses to acknowledge Daylight Savings Time; his alarm does not reset in the wee hours of March 9. He remains purposefully curled in his bed until actual daylight has worked its way into our house. Accordingly, we’ve been walking later. He has the right idea, I realize. March mornings this year have tended toward the cold and cloudy. A walk at 7 AM is likely to be an exercise in gray. An hour or two later, the world is a brighter, warmer, more welcoming place, and its beauty can be better appreciated.
Two days ago, the daffodils were bowed down by yet another late snow. As the sun warms their bobbing heads on this first day of spring, it’s good to see that they’re none the worse for bearing that chilly burden.
The maple trees are getting the message: it really is go time.
These cherry trees in our neighborhood, in the first stage of bloom, are right on schedule. The National Cherry Blossom Festival begins today in DC, with peak bloom expected April 3 – 6.
Kiko and I walk past these mahonia shrubs nearly every day. Mahonia is a vicious looking plant, especially during late summer and fall. Only Morticia Addams would include it in a bouquet. With its tough, spiky leaves, it resembles holly on steroids. In the very midst of winter, however, it begins to show a gentler side; it bears tiny, pale yellow, bell-like flowers that fill the frosty air with a fresh lemony fragrance. As spring arrives, the flowers give way to lush clusters of oval-shaped berries, much loved by the birds. This particular plant is leatherleaf mahonia, or mahonia bealei. Incredibly hearty, it’s invasive if left unchecked. What began as a single mahonia plant in my parents’ back yard forty years ago is now a tall, rather forbidding free-form hedge. I have a soft spot in my heart for mahonia; like nandina and wild trumpet vine, it reminds me of home. When I was growing up, mahonia berries featured prominently in playtime pretend recipes. Light green when they first appear, the berries darken to purple as they ripen. They have a delicate, powdery outer coating, which disappears as they’re handled, revealing the fruit’s true, more intense color. For this reason, mahonia berries often served as the primary ingredient in the “magic” potions my friends and I concocted. Sometimes, all that stood between life and death in our imagined storylines was a single, glowing mahonia berry.
Walking in the sun with my dog on this first morning of spring, I could feel the new season at hand. The birds were chirping, yelling, soaring, partying. Squirrels were jumping and scurrying with renewed vigor, much to Kiko’s delight. Plants were edging up out of brown, dead leaves, stretching new green shoots into the light. I’m in a mood to buy eggs, baby salad greens and asparagus. This afternoon, I might even get out the Easter decorations. Maybe it will be like the old days, when my daughter looked forward to getting home from school so she and I could dye eggs and gather branches for our Easter tree. Maybe. Spring makes all things new again. We’ll see.
May spring bring new warmth and joy to your life!
At Long Last, A Snow Day in Northern Virginia
The snow that my daughter has yearned for all winter here in Virginia finally arrived early this morning. Understandably, this first significant, inordinately late snow of the season is a much-anticipated weather event. All week long every local TV station has had their Storm Watch coverage going full force. Giddy newscasters reported from points as yet untouched by snow, assuring us that the flakes were on their way. Usually, when this happens, it’s either a huge deal, like the blizzard of December 2009 that shut down the DC area for a week, or it’s a complete and utter bust. This was different; it fell somewhere in between.
Not a flake had descended at midnight last night. When we awoke this morning, it didn’t look like much, just a minimal coating on the ground and a fine snow floating down. But more was emphatically promised. Forecasts called for heavy snow all day and into the night. Schools, the Federal government, and many offices were closed. Even H’s office was closed, which is very rare indeed.
Once D and I went out to walk Kiko, enormous, sloppy flakes the size of mini-snowballs began pelting, and quickly drenching us. It was like walking in a heavy, thick, wet rain. It was not especially pleasant.
The snow continues to fall thickly now. D is at a friend’s house sledding, and H is out on the driveway with his never-before-used snow blower. He knew the snow was probably too wet, but he had to give the new toy a try. It’s kicking up an impressively wide spray of white slush. I hope both D and H are happy. Kiko and I are. We’re inside, warm and dry, and we plan to stay that way.
Kiko doesn’t seem to mind wearing his coat, which keeps him somewhat dry. He doesn’t like rain, and this snow bears a strong resemblance to rain.
Kiko has had enough of the fat white rain. Time to go in and dry off.
North to the Sugar Shack: Cartwright’s Maple Tree Inn
Last weekend, we drove to upstate New York for pancakes. Not just for pancakes. Pancakes and maple syrup. We met H’s family at Cartwright’s Maple Tree Inn, a glorified sugar shack located, really, in the middle of nowhere. Its actual address is County Road 15A, Angelica, NY (2 miles from Short Tract), which, in the language of our GPS system, is “not on any digitized road.” Despite its truly out-of-the-way location in the midst of snow-covered fields, it’s a popular spot, with big crowds on weekends. It’s only open during the maple sugar season, which typically runs from mid-February through March or mid-April, depending on the weather. H’s family has been trekking out to Cartwright’s for decades, and now it’s among our winter traditions, even though our drive is far longer. Of course, we don’t return directly to Virginia, but spend the weekend visiting H’s family in Rochester.
The Cartwrights began producing maple syrup on their farm in the 1850s. The Maple Tree Inn dates from 1963, when the family decided to build a restaurant specializing in Grandma’s buckwheat pancakes served with their own maple syrup. In the adjacent shop, the syrup, maple butter and maple sugar cakes became available directly to the public. The somewhat ramshackle building has been expanded over the years and is now fairly large. It will win no awards for architectural style, but that’s not the point. In the chain-store sameness that dominates so much of our country today, the Maple Tree Inn offers a unique, quirky, authentic experience. It’s living history, and it’s worth a visit.
Before I met my husband, I had never tasted true maple syrup. The first time we ate together at PJ’s Pancake House in Princeton, I was surprised to see him pull a small container of pure maple syrup from his pocket. At the time, PJ’s didn’t serve the real stuff, although that has since changed. I didn’t understand what the big deal was. Growing up, when Daddy made pancakes on Saturday mornings, we used the typical supermarket syrup–Log Cabin, Aunt Jemima–whatever. H was no food snob, so I found his insistence on unadulterated maple syrup mystifying. That is, until that day at PJ’s, when I tasted the liquid from that little jar. H was right. There is no topping the perfection of the stuff that comes straight from the tree.
Visitors to the Maple Tree Inn are welcome to descend into the building’s lower level to learn how the sap is boiled down, in huge wood-fired evaporators, to its golden maple essence. Several years ago, a Cartwright grandson, no more than twelve or so, gave us a comprehensive tour that began in the frozen fields where we could examine the taps on the trees and see the liquid running into the buckets. As far as I know, this is not an option at IHOP.
These days, the rarified nuances of maple syrup, like those of chocolate, coffee and small-batch whiskies, are earnestly discussed at considerable length, using wine-lingo terms such as terroir. H doesn’t do this, although he can and does enjoy discerning, in blind taste tests, the variations between light, medium, and dark amber syrups. My palette will never attain such a degree of sophistication, but I can say this: a little true maple syrup makes life sweeter.
Kiko keeps vigil in the car during our meal. Animal advocates need not be alarmed–he has his sheepskin bed and blanket if he needs to hunker down for warmth. Before this trip, in case it was particularly cold, we bought him a red plaid fleece coat. The temperature wasn’t low enough to warrant it, and he appeared perfectly comfortable, peering out from the front seat, when we returned. For his wait, he was rewarded with an extra sausage patty H’s grandmother had carefully saved for him.
Kiko and D atop a tall snowpile on an earlier visit to Cartwright’s, in 2009. Kiko looks almost exactly the same as he did four years ago, when he was two. D, on the other hand, has changed.
Fat Tuesday Sunshine
On this Fat Tuesday afternoon here in northern Virginia, the sun is emphatic in its brightness and temperatures are well into the mid-50s. Kiko again sought out his customary spring spot on the terrace. He reminds me of a northern tourist revelling in the winter Caribbean sunshine.
The sunshine was so abundant, so luxurious, and so relaxing,
that Kiko had no choice but to sleep.
Before long he woke up, overheated. It’s February 12, and he had to find some shade.
What is this Season? Winger? Sprinter? Springer?
There will be a blizzard raging this weekend just to the north of the DC area. It seems that northern Virginia has already received our meager portion of accumulation. We awoke to areas of white mushy crystals around the bases of trees. Pine boughs drooped slightly under a thin coating of watery ice. Now the temperature is rising and a light rain is falling. Kiko evaluated conditions from the dry warmth of the front hall and deemed it too yucky to hurry out on our morning walk. He is now cuddled on the office sofa, and I am very thankful. My daughter, of course, takes the lack of snow as yet another personal affront by her old nemesis, the Weather.
What should we call this ambiguous season? It’s winter one day, spring the next. I’m more used to this pattern than many people, having grown up in Atlanta, where 70-degree temperatures routinely alternate with those of 30- or 40-degrees. I remember when Virginia had four distinct seasons, but nowadays, they’re more of a blur.
Over the past week, the extreme cold has subsided here. As the fine layer of snow in our yard disappeared, it revealed one of our first signs of spring: the dark red clusters of buds that have fallen from our old silver maples. These seem to appear earlier and earlier every year. It’s not just a few buds, either, but many, heavily sprinkled over the yard. The readiness of our big, battered maples continues to amaze me. From the first cold days of winter, they are already anticipating spring. Like good scouts, they are prepared, standing sentry for the first warmer rays of sunshine. And during these recent winters, they receive many confusing signals: Get ready! No, wait! Yes, go ahead! No, no, no, hold up– it’s snowing! Wrong again–it’s only rain. I feel bad for our trees; such see-sawing conditions must be hard on their elderly systems.
The melting snow revealed further evidence of a new season. Bright yellow-green daffodil shoots are already emerging from the ground. Unless you’re in the extreme north, you’re probably noticing them, too. The beginning of February really seems too early for them to be heading up and out, but who am I to judge?
Another unexpected sign of spring at our house is this: Kiko has already been dozing in his favorite sunny spot on the back terrace by the garage doors. I watched him as he settled there after an unsuccessful pursuit of a squirrel at the bird feeder. In years past, I don’t remember ever seeing him there before April or so.
And finally, what about the robins? I know I can’t be the only one to notice that the robins are choosing to remain with us in Virginia all winter long, just as they always do in Georgia. I used to remember noticing their distinct absence, as well as their much-anticipated return. They typically left around the first of December and showed up again with the melting snows of early March. But this winter and last, having apparently adjusted to the weather roller coaster, they haven’t bothered to fly south. They are hopping across our thawing lawn right now, drilling for worms.
To the many disappointed kids like my daughter, I’m sorry that the hoped-for snow is nothing but rain. I’m sorry today’s slush wasn’t even enough to warrant a two-hour delay. And to those of you in the path of this weekend’s storm, good luck, and take care. For all of us, spring (or sprummer?) will be here sooner than we expect. Although who can say what season will follow?
Early-Morning Irritability
I try not to use my blog to rant about life’s trivial annoyances. But today I’ll risk sounding like a pouty child. This morning, a series of minor nuisances really ticked me off.
It began around 6:20, when I applied myself, with much concentration, to the vexing mystery of the moment—how to get the little rubber ring to stay put on the lid of my daughter’s new thermos. I persisted, but had no success. The bell of the toaster oven dinged. Because I had devoted too much pointless effort to the thermos, the mini-bagels I had been toasting for D’s breakfast were burned beyond rehabilitation.
It was at this inopportune moment that my husband wandered blithely into the kitchen. He remarked, in all innocence, that he couldn’t understand why D, who is in the process of choosing the classes she will take next year in high school (high school!), needs to continue studying English. She can read. She’s a good writer. What more does she need to know about English?
That comment, following so quickly on the heels of my thermos and bagel difficulties, was the last straw. My poor fragile camel’s back cracked sharply in half. Some say, I responded, through slightly clenched teeth, that there is value in literature. While reading good books is unlikely to lead to a well-paid career . . .no . . . it’s likely to ensure the absence of a well-paid career, it offers some help in coping with life’s disappointments. I stopped there. I did not add this further petulant bitterness: that reading offers the possibility of occasionally eking out some small measure of joy in a world rife with uncooperative thermos rings, annoying toaster ovens and clueless husbands whose idea of enlightening reading is an online windsurfing forum. H wisely kept quiet until he left for work.
And then Kiko and I went out for our walk. Another lovely light snow had fallen. I expected that the walk would lighten my mood. But no. Paved surfaces were far more slippery than I had expected, and Kiko insisted on attempting a break-neck pace, determined to run, if not in the road, then as close to it as possible, where the cars were hurtling by us more aggressively than usual. The salt from the road frequently stung his paws, prompting him to limp flamboyantly, one foot in the air, yet without lessening his speed. I had to repeatedly kneel down to brush the snow from his paw pads. An icy, gusty wind whipped the snow into my eyes, and the blue glare of the sun on the white ground was blinding. My ears were wet and freezing under my scarf, while my hands were too hot in my mittens. I was reminded vividly of why I find skiing so unpleasant. Our morning outing was an ordeal to be suffered through.
On a happier note, it sure is good to be back home. Alone, except for my silent dog, now sleeping peacefully in another room.
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H telephoned later, warning me about the icy roads and clearly trying to appease my irrational meanness. I’m feeling better now. As Gilda Radner’s Roseanne Roseannadanna used to say: Never mind.
What is this White Stuff?
We woke up this morning, unexpectedly, to snow. It wasn’t a lot of snow, but it was enough to cover the yard and nicely powder the trees and shrubs, to give the world a sort of winter facelift. It’s been ages since we’ve seen snow here in northern Virginia, so it was a welcome sight. Schools were delayed two hours, giving my daughter, a snow fanatic, the chance to enjoy it. The snow piled up prettily on the nandina berries, above.
Today’s snow is pleasant, attractive and manageable. I don’t miss the winters of constant snow, as my daughter does. When she was in preschool and kindergarten, seems like every Friday from December through February brought just enough accumulation to shut down the schools. The prospect of another snow day overjoyed her as much as it exhausted me. I don’t look back fondly on the years of blizzard after blizzard. I hated the many transportation worries. Will the schoolbus make it through? Will the steeply winding road home be passable? Should I cancel that appointment? What havoc will be wreaked by those drivers who have no business venturing out in such weather? Will my husband get stuck behind someone who is unwisely inching up the long hill, again? Will D and I be left to try to shovel the driveway alone, anxiously awaiting roadside updates from H?
The snowy weather ceased, of course, once H bought a snowblower. While he’s been itching to give it a try, I wouldn’t mind if he doesn’t need it again this winter. Or, maybe, to please him and D, he could use it just once. For their sake, I wouldn’t mind one lovely deep snow. While I’m wishing, I’ll wish for the flakes to start falling some Friday night after we’re all safely home.
The yard was covered, just barely, with snow. The trees and bushes were powdered white.
Kiko seemed to have completely forgotten that he had ever experienced snow before. He found it strange but exhilarating.
The first glimpse of the sun in the sky this morning could have been lifted from a Currier and Ives print.
Cold, Miserable Rainy-Day Dog-Walking
The recent cold, rainy weather here in Virginia has been the sort that tests even the most dedicated dog walker. The mornings have brought no pastel watercolor skies, no evidence, really, at all, of the existence of a distant, light and life-giving golden orb. There is only a gradual diminishing of the steely gray darkness. The atmosphere of pervasive gloom is not lessened as the day progresses. It’s hard to look on the bright side when no bright side is visible.
On dreary wet mornings like this one, Kiko’s enthusiasm for the first outing of the day is, thankfully, muted. If the sound of rain is loud and continuous, he might remain curled in his bed, small and fox-like, for several hours. We have postponed that initial walk as late as 11:00 AM on some rainy days. I was hoping this would be the case today, but unfortunately it was not. I was able to delay him for about an hour, but no longer.
I cannot complain of being poorly equipped for dog walking in inclement weather. Prompted either by tender familial devotion or a determination that none of us would have an excuse for not walking the dog on wet days, my husband has outfitted the whole family with extensive rain gear. In addition to hooded, high-tech jackets, we have waterproof boots and pants. If it’s pouring rain, and if I can locate my rain pants (that’s a big if), I’m glad to pull them on over my jeans. More typically, I decide that the rain isn’t steady or strong enough to warrant leg protection. I usually regret this decision, as I did today.
Rain seems to bring out the absolute worst in Kiko’s on-leash behavior. You’d never know he is a Puppy Obedience School grad. (But we have the photo of him, looking ridiculous in a mortarboard hat, to prove it.) The wet weather apparently enhances the depth and variety of earthy smells, so Kiko dawdles excessively, his nose working furiously. Rainy-day walks seem to be, for my dog, the equivalent of science labs. Unless I tug him unmercifully, we inch along. Every clump of grass beckons, begging to be sniffed and sampled, its delicate taste evidently heightened by the rain. Every messy smudge on the road asks to be examined and identified. Dangerous human snacks like bony chicken wings are more likely to be discovered on rainy days, and I must fish them out of his mouth with my fingers. At least Kiko has outgrown his taste for earthworms. If he finds nothing of interest directly in front of him, he tends to stand transfixed, a model of indecision, checking the air for enticing aromas nearby. Finally, there’s what I call his fake-out marking, more prevalent in the rain. He smells a spot lingeringly and intently; he pauses, looks up, almost lifts his leg, yet decides against it.
The more impatient and miserable I become during these rainy walks, the slower Kiko moves. This morning I opted against bringing an umbrella. No matter how often I tugged my hood forward, it kept slipping back, letting rain drop into my eyes, ears and hair. Water trickled into the gap at my wrist between jacket and glove. My gloves were soon heavy and cumbersome. My formerly watertight boots have recently developed a leak, and the first puddle admitted a small flood. One foot was immediately drenched.
The final part of the walk is the worst, along a narrow county road that winds along by the stream bed. It’s picturesque, but treacherous. The nearly nonexistent shoulder is muddy, rutted and overgrown. I’m continually amazed at the cars that fly by, mere inches from my shoulder. I have been known, I admit, to shake my head slowly from side to side, or even to gesture forcefully, if not specifically, in hopes that some may think to slow down, or perhaps, when there is no oncoming traffic, to move closer to the center line. If I ever turn up in the “Public Safety Notes” of our free local paper, I predict it will be due to my encounter with some driver along this stretch of road. I hope it will involve no bodily harm to either party. I expect it will mention something like a “heated verbal exchange.”
For those of you, who, like me, are out there with your dog on dismal mornings, I commiserate with you. And for those who have no dog that requires walking, be sure to count this today as one of your blessings!
He looks so sweet–why can’t he sleep all day long?
A January Dawn
In my last post, I was dwelling on the dying of the day, on the quick and early onset of the January evening, to be faced without benefit of Christmas candles. This morning, as Kiko and I set out on our walk, I realized it had been a while since I paid close attention to the onset of the day. This winter sunrise, I would be observant. I was not disappointed.
The morning didn’t appear especially promising as we began. The sky was stubbornly gray, the land dull and shadowy. The possibility of further light seemed unlikely. But before long, real signs of sunrise became evident. Soon the bare tree branches were silhouetted in inky black, as in a Magritte painting, against a sky that shaded from rose to lavender. A bright crescent moon hung, jewel-like.
These trees seem to lean in towards one another for company as they await the light.
I hadn’t planned on venturing into the woods, but Kiko was determined. Despite the difficulties of negotiating the brambles and unruly profusion of vines while being tugged along by my headstrong dog, I was glad he insisted. A perfect-looking January morning should be snow-covered, in my opinion. In the absence of the white fluffy stuff, a heavy frost is the next-best adornment. The tangled weeds along the banks of the creek were dressed up with a pearly iridescent coating. The woods and sky glowed with the same pale, elegant luminosity. Such winter mornings are among the early-rising dog-walkers’ best rewards; I’m glad I didn’t miss this one.